


Chimera Tongue

by hikash0



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal (TV) RPF
Genre: Cannibalism, Dreams, M/M, Mutilation, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-21
Updated: 2013-06-21
Packaged: 2017-12-15 15:59:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/851392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hikash0/pseuds/hikash0
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hannibal has a beautiful dream. One that he wants to run the length of his tongue and swallow whole.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chimera Tongue

**Author's Note:**

> chi·me·ra [ki-meer-uh, kahy-]  
> noun, plural chi·me·ras.  
> 1.  
> ( often initial capital letter ) a mythological, fire-breathing monster, commonly represented with a lion's head, a goat's body, and a serpent's tail.  
> 2.  
> any similarly grotesque monster having disparate parts, especially as depicted in decorative art.  
> 3.  
> a horrible or unreal creature of the imagination; a vain or idle fancy.  
> 4.  
> Genetics. an organism composed of two or more genetically distinct tissues, as an organism that is partly male and partly female, or an artificially produced individual having tissues of several species.
> 
> Synonyms  
> 3\. dream, fantasy, delusion.

_It is a haze, a blur he’s barely know. His mind is normally so clear, as sharp as the knives he keeps. Not this milky, murky haze punctuated only by a flourish of air, the wind of a sleeve near his jaw. There is the pulsing of another’s jugular and the blood in those veins calls out to him like the air stinging the flayed meat in his mouth. There are clamps on his face, peeling the fleshjoints of his lips into an opening that is more like a stage than anything. There is a metal band strapping his forehead to the chair. It draws beads of sweat between skin and forged mineral. He thinks about how he could make salt from something like this._

_Capillaries are peeled away by sandpaper, by the light kisses of rusty, oily, box cutters; tools found in the average garage. But this encounter is far from average. In fact, ‘momentous ’ is the word that strikes through his skull when the haze dances away and he finally ‘sees’._

_The thing before him is clad in jeans and flannel. It quirks a smile full of nothing and drags its own strings around. It mangles itself in the remnants of its brain where neurons unravel into nooses, and whittles itself until its arms are spikes that run through all of the dogs._

_“I’ll take your taste. We’ll be even then.”_

_The voice is a hoarse giggle. The sharp lines on either side of its mouth and the stubble betray the echo of what it used to be simply because they, unlike the rest of it, have not changed. He remembers those times fondly. Not quite so fondly as this though, there is splicing in the joints of the thing’s arms and the box cutter twirls between calloused fingers that smell of boats and fishing lures. This he inhales and it is enough to fill him to the brim. There is no fine china or cracked teacups. Now there is only a mongoose that has killed all the snakes._

_Metal tastes like blood and blood tastes like metal. Filets are sliced and soon the art of savoring is no longer his to partake of. This saddens him; that there would be no double-edged artistries, no collaborations, or recipes a deux. But this too he inhales with a somewhat contented resignation. He inhales it into himself as his tongue is peeled away and his own taste buds are returned to him in the form of a meal._

Hannibal wakes on the wave of an incoming breath. It scatters in his mouth and is interrupted by his reaching fingers. They grasp and hold and scrape nicely kept nails along the twitching thing that writhes for fear of what his dream showed him. 

The salt from the pads of his fingertips and skin makes saliva pool under his tongue. He closes his eyes and his heart sings at the fact that he can still taste it. It wets his appetite and kindles his daily craving. Normally breakfast would do well to calm him, but not after this dream. Now there is only one dish that can satiate him, one thing that has been carefully set aside and prepared on the stovetop that is his life.

How lucky for Hannibal that it’s already on simmer.


End file.
